


The Arms of This Night

by Liebelit



Category: Joker (2019)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Masturbation, Non-Explicit Sex, Other, Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-26
Updated: 2020-06-26
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:35:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24926266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liebelit/pseuds/Liebelit
Summary: When it's dark and quiet, when he's sure his mother has fallen asleep and that he's as alone as he can be, Arthur replays Murray's show in his mind.
Relationships: Arthur Fleck/Murray Franklin
Comments: 5
Kudos: 27





	The Arms of This Night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Honking4Joker](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Honking4Joker/gifts).



> The title for this is from a lyric of the song A Night So Still by Tindersticks.   
> This concept was entirely Honking4Joker's idea and I was just surprisingly inspired by it and the way they described it to me when we talked about it. They said I could write it if I wanted to so I decided to give it a try and here's what I came up with. 
> 
> I hope you guys like it! Especially you dust bunny, and I hope I did your idea justice!!

When it’s dark and quiet, when he’s sure his mother has fallen asleep and that he’s as alone as he can be, Arthur replays Murray’s show in his mind. 

He lies on his back on the couch, his eyes closed, and goes back to the moment of his dreams. He hears the cheers, the applause. Sees the bright lights overhead and feels their warmth. On the stage, Murray smiles at the audience, and Arthur wonders what it would be like if that familiar smile was directed solely at him. 

It’s late. It’s been a long, rough day. 

That doesn’t say much as every day is like that for him, but today he’s especially tired in every way. Tonight he doesn’t have the energy to remember what Murray was actually talking about or to make up something of his own. The most he can do is go through the motions in alternating flashes of a burned out fantasy and painfully slow moments of indulgence. 

Those few moments of relief are always the best part. They’re all he allows himself to have once the day is finally over, when he gives in to the silent longing he smothers any other time. 

In his seat, he jumps and yells and claps wildly as Murray cracks a joke. He makes a spectacle of himself. When the spotlight falls on him he stands up and introduces himself with a coy smile. At that moment, he’s making eye contact with Murray across rows and rows of darkness. For all he knows they could be the only two points of light in the room. Murray up there in his clean, bright world of success and recognition, and Arthur in the little spot he’s made for himself, under the thin beam of light that Murray is shining down on him. 

During the night, when he’s alone with his thoughts, it doesn’t matter that Arthur’s place under that light only exists in a corner of his mind. 

Murray sees him, and he can feel his heart beating harder like it wants to burst out in a bloody debut. There might be a joke somewhere in there about a dancing bleeding heart. A dancing heart breaking into show business? Who knows, he’s tired. He makes a mental note of it, then turns his attention back to his idol. 

He doesn’t always mention his mother and what he does for her. Sometimes Murray asks him what he does for a living in Gotham. Arthur tells him he works as a clown but what he really wants to do is be a comedian. Encouraged by all, but especially by _Murray_ , he tells a joke. 

Everyone laughs. _At him_. They always laugh at him for one reason or another. 

It’s only when Murray steps in that they quiet down. He says something, maybe makes a joke of his own, that somehow saves the failed attempt at comedy. Arthur knows his sense of humor is an acquired taste, certainly not the show’s brand, but Murray gets it anyway. Everything about him would be an acquired taste, if it was a taste at all, and Murray accepts that. Admires it even. 

Sometimes Arthur talks about one of the few childhood experiences he can remember. Sometimes about the awful things he’s seen on the streets. But whatever he says, Murray is the only one who understands. 

Only Murray would ask his name, ask him questions about himself and actually care to listen to his answers. Reach out to him and take his hand. Lift him up. Cheer for him. Show him off to the world. Only Murray would give him a sincere, simple compliment, without demands or expectations or backhanded slights. Only Murray would embrace him without hesitation. 

Up on the stage, in Murray’s world, Arthur falls easily into the older man’s arms. He melts there and lives in that moment for a short eternity. 

His arms close around Murray, his head rests on Murray’s broad shoulder. 

On the couch, his arms are wrapped around himself. 

He can’t remember the last time he hugged someone who wasn’t his mother. Even the few times he’s done that lately he can tell her heart isn’t in it like it used to be. He can’t remember when that was either. 

It’s late, and he’s tired and he should go to sleep, but he wants just a few more moments in the peaceful quiet of the night. 

After the show ends, Murray invites him backstage. Offers to show him around the studio and have a cup of hot chocolate. Later, they’re sitting on a plush couch in Murray’s dressing room, just talking about life. Arthur fidgets shily, nervously. His leg bounces uncontrollably. He doesn’t laugh, not here, but he feels the uncomfortable urge deep in his chest. Whatever air of confidence he had before out there has dissolved now that he’s in this private shiny bubble instead. Still, he doesn’t fall apart. He drinks most of his hot chocolate. The last dregs of it go cold but what he managed to gulp down settles warmly in his stomach. 

He feels himself drifting. He tugs the blanket closer. 

Murray tells him something then, Arthur doesn’t know what—he’s too tired to make it out, make it up—but he knows it was said gently and with affection. 

It must have been the kindest thing he’s heard in a while. 

A few frames go missing, his mind blacking out for a moment, because suddenly he’s being hugged by Murray again. Pressed close together, Arthur lets out a deep sigh as Murray holds him and slowly rubs his back. He lays his head on Murray’s shoulder again and breathes. Near blissful unconsciousness, he tries to follow the rhythm of much steadier, healthier breaths as Murray envelopes him with soothing words. He doesn’t always cry, but tonight he can feel the wetness of unshed tears gathering in his eyes. 

Murray holds him, talks to him, listens to him when Arthur decides to speak. There’s no space left between them, and in that moment Arthur feels loved. 

Sometimes, Murray even kisses the top of his head between whispered reassurances.

And that’s usually as far as it goes.

That’s usually where it ends, but tonight the best part of the dream doesn’t just fade away into nothing. Tonight is one of those rare nights when Murray doesn’t let go and Arthur holds on even tighter. So tight that he becomes impossibly aware of every single point of contact between their bodies. 

He lies there, sits there, rests there with Murray’s arms around him and Murray’s voice softly going through him. With their chests pressed against each other, breathing together. And he feels… Funny. Warmer. 

It builds up low throughout his body. A warmth that has nothing to do with imaginary hot chocolate or a real blanket, but that comes from somewhere deep within him. 

Arthur blinks his eyes open and stares at the ceiling in the dark. His breathing isn’t so steady anymore. 

He shifts uncomfortably, unsure of what to do. What he should do is turn over and go to sleep, but he’s not even that tired anymore, and feeling like this is such a rare occurrence for him that he doesn’t want to waste the chance. All he has to do is think about the sensation of Murray’s solid form against him, the simple pleasure of human contact, and his decision is made. His hand shakes slightly as he pulls the pillow from under his head and holds it tight against his chest. Running the tips of his fingers down the soft, lavender-scented cover, he imagines there’s flesh and bone and muscle under there, and closes his eyes. 

Back on the nice couch, Arthur buries his face in the crook of Murray’s neck. Hides there and breathes in Murray’s cologne. Focuses on that pathetically tiny spot where a sliver of his skin touches a sliver of Murray’s. Any remaining walls of stress fall down, just for this moment, and he opens himself up to the caring words and caresses of the only person he believes in. 

Softly, Murray tells him he believes in Arthur too. He tells him that he’s doing well, despite everything. That he believes he can make it. 

When Arthur makes a pitiful, needy, whimpering sound against his collar and grasps fistsfuls of his jacket, Murray hushes him and tells him he’ll take care of him. The warm hand resting on the middle of his back eases carefully lower and lower. It touches more of him as it starts to move in soothing strokes with a different intent. Murray’s other hand finds its way down the side of his body, over his sore ribs and down to his thigh, and Arthur presses even closer. 

His breathing comes in faster. His ingenue heart dances wildly in his chest. Slowly, he slides his hand under the pillow. 

A long time ago, when Arthur first started having these sorts of thoughts about Murray, he felt intense guilt to the point of being too petrified to act. At first it was just a light squeeze of his shoulder, a soft pat on the cheek, small innocent touches that anybody might dream of, until they started turning into something else. Until Arthur started seeing Murray as not just as a childhood idol but something… More. A symbol of hope that filled him with equal amounts of arousal and anxiety. 

He was sure there must have been something wrong with him, something dirty, for his mind to be capable of thinking that way about someone who for most of his life he had admired as a mentor and father figure. The truth is things haven’t changed all that much. He still feels guilt and shame each time, is still convinced this is just another product of his diseased mind, but at some point he got tired of pretending to be normal even late at night when he was alone and no one could see. 

Some days, on the rare occasions when this happens, thoughts like these are the only thing that keeps him going. Sometimes this is all he has to get through the constant loneliness. 

It’s not about romantic feelings of any kind, and despite his body’s reaction it’s not about sex either. All he wants is to be known by someone. All he wants is to have one person who will be there for him, see him and cherish him. He wants to be taken apart gently by someone’s kind words and warm weathered hands. 

He wants to be told that he matters. That he’s good and clean. That he’s not just another speck of dirt on the pavement that will be stepped on and ignored forever. 

He wants to be held like Murray is holding him. 

Murray makes him feel good and clean. Murray tells him he’ll be there to protect him. 

Arthur grips tighter as tears finally spill down his face and onto the worn cushions. Onto Murray’s pristine jacket. They leave dark spots on the light silvery fabric and Arthur’s lips quirk up in a bittersweet smile. Deep down he’s always thought of Murray as his untouchable white knight.

He gasps when Murray kisses his temple, follows the new trail of more tears and kisses his cheek, the corner of his mouth, down his jaw and neck. 

He tries to be quiet but his shuddering breaths still sound too loud and desperate in the small space of the living room. His free hand comes up to cover his mouth. Murray’s hand cradles the back of his head and brushes through his hair as Arthur muffles his moans on the tear-stained jacket. 

It’s almost too much, the way Murray says his name. Over and over, as if reminding him he’s real, but perfectly steady and in control. Not like Arthur’s own broken pleas for relief. 

Writhing against nothing and everything, he loses himself to the sound of Murray saying his spirit is bright and beautiful. He nearly comes undone at the feeling of Murray reaching under layers of clothing to touch his bare skin. 

Murray is gentle with his sensitive, starved body. Much more considerate than Arthur bothers to be at his own mercy as he edges closer to release.

The moment shifts as quickly as the strokes of his hand. He’s on Murray’s lap now, his legs spread. Murray keeps one hand on the nape of his neck and the other low between their bodies, soothing the pulsing need there. Taking care of him with more kindness than Arthur could ever give himself. His whole being is overwhelmed by the careful intimacy of everything Murray gives. A strong and attentive grasp, a broad palm leaving a burning path down his length. A soft brush of lips over his tightly shut eyes. Fingers deep in his hair, massaging his scalp in drawn out circles. The ghost of a cheek against his own and Murray’s low voice in his ear. A place to rest his weight as Murray’s sweet, encouraging words fill his head. 

It’s all so nice that he wants to make it last forever. There’s a yearning in him to reach out and give something back. He wants to make Murray feel as good as he makes Arthur feel, but he’s too tired to manage anything more than grinding into him desperately. Everything blurs in ripples of motion and heat. Panting shallowly into his own palm, he can barely hold back the rising whines in his throat as he’s held and told that he’s a good person. As Murray tells him that he does bring something good to the world, that his life isn’t a waste, Arthur can only turn his face and sob silently into the cushions. 

He’s falling apart now, but Murray’s arms can hold the shattered pieces together. At least until the night is over.

Quietly, Murray tells him that he’s doing so well. Reminds him that Arthur is here with him in this moment, and that he’s there for Arthur. It’s hard to believe, but when Murray tells him he can get better Arthur tries to believe it. He can be okay, someday. There’s one person who wants to know him. To see what’s inside the cracked shell of his being without discarding it. He’s not alone. And he can let go. 

The world behind his eyelids explodes in a flash of white. Arthur bites down hard on his lower lip to keep from crying out as pleasure runs through him. 

It’s a painstakingly built up and backlogged burst of clarity, and it’s over in two seconds. 

All that’s left is a mess beneath the pillow and fast-drying tear marks. He lies there, chest heaving as he catches his breath; heartbeat still hammering away. Time crawls by and he starts drifting off again now that the end of the show has faded out. 

It doesn’t seem like very long at all before his breathing calms down, his heartbeat slows back to normal, and all that’s left in him is exhaustion. 

He doesn’t fall asleep, though. He can’t. He missed his chance to catch a few meager hours of sleep earlier when he decided to jump on a different chance instead. Now it’s too late and he can’t sleep. But he’s also too tired to do anything besides lie bonelessly and listen to the odd little background noises around him. The soft buzz of the fridge in the kitchen. A creaking sound from the floor above. The ticking of the clock. Together they make a half-decent distraction from the inevitable feelings of shame and the crowding thoughts in his head, until eventually they themselves are drowned out by the sounds of the city outside. 

Through the window, a wailing siren draws near and then away. A loud bang rings out in the distance. Someone screams. These are things that can be heard all the time, but that were somehow muted by his brain for a few precious moments. Just for a little while, life didn’t have to be a meaningless miserable series of events. But now reality comes rushing back. 

Soon enough, the quiet comfort of the night will be completely gone, and it’ll be the start of another day. 

Another day of pretending he’s okay. Of being beaten by strangers’ fists, willful blindness, and hurled insults. 

Arthur knows that’s probably all his life will ever be. He knows he’ll probably never make it as a comedian. He knows he will never be anywhere near Murray, let alone actually meet him. But sometimes, like tonight, he can at least dream about what it might be like if he got to have something he wanted for once. Most people would step over him even in that reality, but Murray wouldn’t hurt him. Maybe it’s too much to ask, but he hopes Murray would never laugh like the rest of them. 

All he wants is to imagine Murray could be the one person who was nice. 


End file.
